


Be My Muse

by a_splash_of_stucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Blind Date, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Shy Bucky Barnes, Shy Peggy Carter, Truth or Dare, Writer Bucky Barnes, cafe-worker!reader, setting friends up on dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: A handsome stranger named James walks into your cafe. Who knew you’d meet him again when you get set up on a blind date?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of [this](https://just-some-drabbles.tumblr.com/post/164812274048/jsds-rom-com-challenge/) writing challenge. My prompt was "It’s a dare, you have to do it. Those are the rules."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part involves handsome strangers, a bar and friends trying to set each other up on dates.

The cafe is always quiet at 4pm on a Thursday.

You’re busying yourself behind the counter, taking advantage of the afternoon lull to get some cleaning and organising done. Thus far, you’ve polished the pastry display case, wiped down the countertop and put away the cleaned mugs and plates from this morning’s customers.

Although the cafe is a lovely place to work in, it’s not exactly where you imagined yourself to be, at this stage of your life.

Oh, sure, you could have landed a  _far_  worse job. Though it gets lonely sometimes, having to do the afternoon shift by yourself, at least you have a great friend in Sharon, who comes by to help you with the busier morning shift everyday. Besides, the peace that settles over the cafe once the lunch hour is over is a welcome reprieve from the hustle and bustle of your life. Maria, the owner, is a kind — if, fairly strict — boss, and the pay here is better than anything you could have gotten anywhere else.

There’re several less-than-positive things about this job, like the bathroom that reeks of urine no matter how hard you scrub it, plus the fact that you seem to only get customers that  _love_ to loudly complain about the slow service is, but hey; it’s a job that pays and one you’re glad to have. As such, you’re willing to overlook the less savoury aspects of it.

You’re in the middle of arranging glasses on the shelves when the bell over the door dings, and the most  _stunning_  man you’ve ever set eyes on walks into the shop.

You try to surreptitiously check him out as he casts his eyes over the menu. He’s well-built, with chestnut brown, slightly wavy hair that is tied back into a little bun. The stranger wears a black leather jacket over a grey t-shirt, both garments hugging his body in a most delectable manner. His dark blue jeans accentuate what has  _got_ to be the best looking ass you’ve ever seen and those  _thighs_ , my god. You have to physically restrain yourself from thinking salacious thoughts about them. When he pulls his sunglasses off, you have to fight the urge to swoon, because  _damn_ \- a face like that belongs in a magazine.

Mr Handsome saunters up to the counter, hands thrust into his pockets and you dash over to assist him, wiping your sweaty palms on your apron and hoping to the dear gods above that you don’t make a fool of yourself.

“H-hi,” you stutter, immediately chiding yourself for letting him see how flustered you are. “Um, how can I help you?”

The man smiles, “What do you recommend I get?” he asks. Oh, sweet  _lord_ , that voice — gifted to him by the goddamn  _angels_. Deep and mellow, but at the same time slightly husky. It makes your knees weak.

You gulp, trying desperately not to get lost in the alluring blue of his eyes. “Um, well, th—the lemon tart. That’s—that’s my favourite. And—uh, if you want a drink, the—um, any coffee’s good,”.

“D’you make them?” he asks, leaning casually against the pastry display.

 _Oh_.

Your brain very much like how that posture makes his shirt ride up slightly, exposing just the tiniest strip of flesh. You force yourself to take a deep breath to steady your racing heart. “I—yes. I make them,” you reply.

Mr Handsome grins, “Then of  _course_ they’re gonna be good,” he quips.

You blush. “Oh, um—,”

“I’ll have whatever your specialty is,” he says, “And the lemon tart. And your name, if that’s okay,”.

You giggle girlishly, internally wincing at how high-pitched and fake it sounds. “It’s Y/N,” you tell him, “Would you like that to-go?”

“I’m James,” he says simply, shifting to rest both both elbows on the counter as you step away, “And yes, to-go. I’ve got to meet someone,”.

This close, you can’t help but notice the sleek leather glove he wears on his left hand. For a brief moment, you wonder why he has it covered up. “Sure thing,” you murmur distractedly, grabbing a take-away cup and turning the coffee machine on, grabbing the milk you’ll need to fix him —  _James_ , you remind yourself — a latte.

“Quiet, today, huh?” James comments, taking stock of the little shop.

“It’s normally pretty quiet around this time,” you admit, “Kinda like it. The mornings are the busiest, so it’s nice to get a break after,”.

“You’ve been working here long?” he asks curiously.

“Um, just over a year,” you reply. “But I’m hoping that changes soon,”.

“Oh? Explain, if you don’t mind,”.

You sigh, hitting a few buttons on the coffee machine and watching as it starts to warm up. “Well, I’ve…I’ve always wanted to have my  _own_  shop. A little bakery, somewhere. I’ve got my eye on a place, but I haven’t had the money to put down a deposit. So I’ve been saving up,” you tell James, as you pull out a box to put his lemon tart in.

“Sounds lovely,” he murmurs, smiling at you. “You bake, huh?”

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling fondly as memories of Sunday mornings spent in your mother’s kitchen spring to mind. “My mama and I used to bake all sorts of things on the weekends. We’d have bake sales, sometimes, to raise money for whatever charity my dad was supporting at the time. We were gonna open a bakery together. I was gonna go to pastry school, and everything,”.

“What changed?” James asks quietly, sensing the wistfulness in your tone.

You’re silent for a moment, masking your hesitation by fussing around with his drink, finishing the art on his foam with a well-practiced flick of your wrist. When it’s done, you turn around, fold your arms over your chest and bite your lip. Talking about your mother and your shattered dreams have stirred up feelings of grief and loss that you’d thought were long buried in the back of your mind. The rational part of you knows that you have no obligation to tell James anything, but there’s an honesty in his eyes that makes you trust him.

“I—my dad lost his job, which he’d had for nearly twenty years. He—he drank. A lot. And one night, he was driving drunk, with my ma in the passenger seat, and they—didn’t make it home,”, you say, voice a little strained at the end.

“I’m sorry,” James says, and when your gaze flicks over to him, you see genuine sincerity in his gaze. “That must’ve been hard for you,”.

You shrug, crossing over to the pastry display and using out a pair of tongs to pull out a lemon tart, which you carefully slide into the box you’ve prepared. “It was, but it was a while ago. I’ve…been doing okay since then. Still hoping to open that bakery someday,”.

“I’m sure you will,” James murmurs.

“And yourself?” you ask, turning your back to him temporarily so that you can secure the box shut. “What do you work as?”

“I—am a writer,” James answers, though his tone is a little terse. “Well, at least, I’m supposed to be one,”.

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ve…had writer’s block. For the longest time. And my editor and publisher—they’re starting to get impatient. I just…haven’t been in the mood for it, y’know?”

“My sympathies,” you reply, looping a blue ribbon around the box and deftly tying it into a neat bow. “That must suck,”.

“Yeah,” James sighs, “But talking to you has helped given me some ideas,”.

“Really?” you murmur, lips quirking up into an easy smile as you hand him his drink and tart. “That’s eleven, please,”.

“Yes, really,” James says sincerely, fishing out his wallet from back pocket and handing you a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change,”.

“Oh, no, I—,”

“Please,” James says, already beginning to walk towards the door, “Save up for your little bakery,”.

You duck your head so that he can’t see the smile bursting over your expression, “Thanks,”.

“See you around,” he calls, as he shoulders the door open.

As you watch his form get swallowed by the swarming crowd outside, you give yourself a mental smack to the forehead for not having the foresight to give him your number. All you can do now is hope that you see James sometime soon.

——————————

“Ooh, hottie alert,” Natasha snickers, eyes flickering across the room towards the bar. Following her line of sight, you crane your neck to see who she’s referring to, Peggy and Wanda doing likewise.

“Oh, god,” Peggy groans, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh yes,” Wanda says, a grin spreading over her face.

It’s Friday night, which means that you and the girls are spending the evening at your favourite bar, parked in your default corner booth. You’re nursing a G&T, and somehow, Natasha has managed to coax everyone into a game of truth or dare. The aforementioned game has just been interrupted, as Nat has spotted one of the bar’s other frequent customers.

“You  _have_ to ask him out, Pegs,” Wanda insists, eyes still trained on the muscular blonde. “He’s a really nice guy,”.

“For the hundredth time, it’s not happening,” Peggy growls sullenly, gaze firmly fixed on the empty beer bottle in the middle of the table. “Now, come on, Natasha, spin it, will you?”.

Nat arches on perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, but says nothing as she gives the bottle a spin with a deft flick of her wrist. As luck would have it, the spout ends up pointing in Peggy’s direction.

“Truth or dare?” Natasha asks, grinning smugly as she sits back in her chair.

Peggy quirks up her own eyebrow in response to Natasha’s unspoken challenge. Those two go after each other like a pair of fighting bulls, honestly. “Dare,” Peggy says, tone resolute and confident.

“Oooh,” Wanda murmurs, tilting her head closer to yours. “Nat’s dare are the  _worst_ ,”.

“Or best, depending on how you look at it,” you reply. Wanda snorts, amused.

Nat cocks her head to the side and chews her lip thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration. One finger idly traces the rim of her glass. “Got it!” she says, snapping her gaze to Peggy, “I  _dare_  you, to go over to the bar and ask blondie out,”.

“ _Steve_?” Peggy hisses, agahast, “Natasha— _no_ ,”.

“Natasha,  _yes_ ,” Nat shoots back, fighting hard to keep the triumphant, mocking grin from spreading across her face.

“ _Please_ ,” Peggy begs, “I—I you know how I feel about—,”.

“And that is  _precisely_ , why you have to do it,” Natasha interrupts. “I’m doing you a favour here,”.

“I shan’t do it,” Peggy grumbles.

 **“It’s a dare, you have to do it. Those are the rules** ,”Natasha says flatly, tone leaving no further room for argument.

“C’mon, Peggy,” Wanda urges, “You two have been making eyes at each other for the last  _month_. It was gonna happen eventually,”.

“Fine,” Peggy huffs, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Fine, I’ll do it. But on one condition. Y/N has to come with me,”.

“I—what?” you ask sharply.

“For moral support,” Peggy explains, turning to look at you with pleading eyes.

“Since when have you needed moral support for shit like this?” Nat mumbles.

Peggy turns up the intensity of her gaze and you feel your resolve melting under it. When have you ever been able to say no to one of your friends, anyway?

“Okay, okay,”, you sigh, “Let’s go. C’mon, up,”.

“Good luck!” Wanda chirps, as you and Peggy make your way over to the corner of the bar that Steve is leaning against. Peggy clutches your elbow when you draw nearer, as if needing some physical reassurance. 

“I can’t believe I let her talk me into this,” Peggy mutters under her breath, casting an evil glance in Nat’s direction.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He seems like a nice enough guy. What d’you want me to do?” you ask.

“Umm…can you do the introductions?” Peggy whispers, “You’re always so much better at that part,”.

You roll your eyes. “So long as you do the  _actual_ asking,” you respond dryly.

“Deal,”.

Peggy drops her hand from your elbow, allowing you to saunter up to Steve. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching as you nonchalantly lean back against the counter, then swivel your head to look directly at his profile. Somewhere to your left, Peggy hovers, apprehension radiating off her in thick waves.

When he senses you looking at him, Steve turns his head and flashes you a gentle smile. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, voice deep and gentle.

“Ma’am?” you echo, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. “My, my, you  _are_  a polite one, aren’t you?”

Steve shrugs and ducks his head, a pink flush spreading over his cheeks. “Well, my ma raised me to always remember my manners,” he admits.

“God bless her,” you say. “You’re Steve, right? I’m pretty sure we’ve talked before. Just, y’know, with me being a lot more drunk,”.

Steve chuckles heartily, eyes glinting with merriment. “Yes, I seem to recall something along those lines happening,”.

You laugh along with him, before resting a hand on his forearm pointedly. His eyes flicker over your face, confusion furrowing his brow. “Is there something I can help you with?” he repeats.

“Actually, there  _is_  something,”, you murmur, motioning with your fingers for Peggy to come forward. She appears by your side not a heartbeat later, and Steve turns to face her.

“Hi,” Peggy says, body going uncharacteristically tense. “I’m—Peggy. We’ve uh—,”. You resist the urge to giggle; you’ve never seen Peggy  _this_  flustered. Steve must really be doing a number on her heart.

“Hey, I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I?” Steve asks, gracefully swooping in to save Peggy from potentially making a fool of herself. Well, really, she’s too composed to make a fool of herself, but you appreciate Steve’s thoughtfulness, nonetheless. Sensing that your work here is done, and that the two are about to have a  _conversation_ , you step away, giving them some privacy.

“ _Yes_ ,” Peggy breathes, relief spreading through her shoulders, “Yes, we have. I’ve got a question to ask you, actually,”

“Ask away,” Steve says, smiling easily at her.

“Would you like to dance?” she blurts out.

“I’d love to—,” is what Steve begins to say, before he is cut off by his phone vibrating on the table beside him, pinging with the noise of an incoming text. Steve glances at the screen and frowns, “Sorry, I need to get this,” he mutters, shooting Peggy an apologetic look. He unlocks his phone and swipes a few buttons, brow becoming increasingly furrowed as the seconds tick past.

With a heavy sigh, he straightens up and gives Peggy a pained look.

“Is everything alright?” Peggy asks concernedly.

Steve sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his hair. “I—something came up. A friend—my best friend. He’s—I need to see him,”. He pauses, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance,”, he murmurs, looking at Peggy through his outrageously long lashes.

“Alright,” Peggy says softly, “A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club,”

“You got it,”, Steve replies, a hesitant smile spreading over his face.

“Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late, understood?”, she continues.  _That_  sounds more like the Peggy you know; firm and unrelenting, not taking any bullshit from anyone.

Steve manages a chuckle, amused by her forwardness. “You know, I don’t actually know how to dance,” he admits, adding a little shrug for emphasis.

“I’ll show you how,” Peggy says, expression and tone softening, “Just be there,”.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Steve replies, a far-off look in his eyes. “Here, let me give you my number,”, he mutters, patting his pockets for a pen and grabbing his napkin from under his glass. He flips it over to the drier side and scrawls on it a string of digits, before thrusting the little tissue into her palm. “See you, I guess,” Steve says, flashing Peggy one final, cheeky grin, before turning to head out the door.

“Bye,” Peggy murmurs, expression distant and fond and  _love-struck_.

“I think someone’s in it  _deep_ ,” you sing-song, elbowing her playfully in the ribs.

“Oh hush, you,” Peggy snaps, but there’s no heat in her voice, which only makes you cackle gleefully. “So what if I am? I think he’s a nice guy to have a crush on,”.

“I wonder if her has a friend that’s just as nice?” you muse, “Nice guys are so hard to come by, nowadays,”. Even as you speak, your mind thinks back to a dark-haired, well-dressed stranger walking into your shop, putting butterflies in your stomach whilst simultaneously making you feel completely at ease.

“Want me to ask him?” Peggy says, waving the napkin in her hand.

“I think I’m good,”, you murmur, grabbing her upper arm and leading her back to the booth where Nat and Wanda are waiting anxiously.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself,”.

——————————

Peggy breaks the news once you’re on the way back home.

“You  _what_?”

“I set you up on a blind date!” she repeats.

“With who? When?” you ask incredulously.

“Steve’s friend,” Peggy replies, “After I got his number, I decided to ask,”.

“Steve’s friend?” you echo, “I told you not to ask!”

“You never  _told_ me explicitly,” Peggy says defensively, “You just said ‘I think I’m good’, so I took it upon myself to ask on your behalf. His name’s Bucky, by the way,”.

“Call it off,” you growl.

“I shan’t,” Peggy replies, in that tone she uses when she’s unwilling to back down from a fight.

“Y/N, you haven’t been on a date in  _months_ ,” Wanda interjects, “Maybe this’ll do you some good,”.

“C’mon, Y/N, what harm can it do? You might actually like the guy,” Natasha adds, slinging her arm over your shoulders.

“Fat chance,” you grumble, thinking back to James at your cafe. You’ve only spent ten minutes, at most with him, but you’re positive that he’s taken your heart.

“Just  _try_ ,” Wanda implores. “When is it, Peggy?”

“Tomorrow, 8pm, at that Thai place ‘round the corner,”, she replies.

“Fine,” you grumble, “I’ll do it, if it’ll make y’all leave me alone,”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And, if you'd like to reblog this chapter on tumblr, then [here's](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/165961921527/be-my-muse-1/) the link.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part involves blind dates and fluffy confessions.

“I don’t want to go!” you whine petulantly.

You’re sat at your dressing table, Wanda standing behind you as she arranges your hair into a stylish updo. Natasha is perched on the table in front of you, helping you apply your blush and highlighter, whilst Peggy — in true Peggy fashion — is lying on the bed, contributing to the conversation every now and then.

“Really, Y/N, what’s the worst that could happen?” Natasha chides, dusting the makeup brush over your cheekbones.

“That the guy could be an asshole and this could go down as one of the worst dates in history?” you suggest.

“Actually, I think the worst date scenario is that the guy turns out to be rapist, or a serial killer, or something,” Wanda says solemnly, twisting another lock of hair over your ear and pinning it in place.

“And you remember what to do if he  _does_  turn out to be a rapist, don’t you?” Natasha asks, setting her brushes down and picking up a tube of red lipstick.

“I remember,” you sigh, “None of you are helping me calm my nerves, by the way,”.

“Y/N, I think you’re overthinking this,” Peggy pipes up, “I mean, really, this is Steve’s best friend, d’you honestly think he’s going to be so bad?”

“I dunno,” you sigh, “I guess not,”. Peggy has been talking to Steve almost non-stop since getting his number, and has told you countless times how  _nice_ he is. Steve speaks highly of this Bucky person, and you’re disinclined to think that he would lie about something like that. Ergo, Bucky must actually be a great guy.

“There. Done,” Natasha says, leaning back and tilting your chin up to examine her handiwork. “You look stunning, darlin’,”, she drawls.

“I agree,” Wanda says, finishing your hair off with a light mist of hairspray. “Whoever Bucky is, he’ll not be able to take his eyes off you,”.

“Thanks girls,” you murmur, standing up to admire yourself in the full length mirror by your bedroom door. “Wow,” you breathe, taking in the sight. This morning, the girls had helped you pick out a knee-length burgundy [dress](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2Fpin%2F359513982729897777%2F&t=MmEyNDMxNDg3MWJmZDg2MTM1ZmVmZWVmNzI1ZjdmNTA2OGY4NDA2NSxkUEU0Vkhjag%3D%3D&b=t%3ABByx4Sw7k4LxWPcVek2q8g&p=https%3A%2F%2Fa-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166032586583%2Fbe-my-muse-2&m=1) from a little boutique near your apartment. The dress accentuates your shoulders and collarbones in a most captivating manner, and the material hugs your body in all the right places, smoothing out your curves. You’ve paired it with simple gold jewellery and nude heels, wanting to keep the look simplistic, refined and elegant. Wanda and Nat have done an amazing job on hair and makeup, highlighting your natural beauty, without detracting or distracting from it.

Whoever Bucky is, he’ll certainly get some eye-candy tonight.

“So Steve says that Bucky’s going to be wearing all black,” Peggy says, coming to stand beside you. “Shirt, trousers, tie, everything. Can’t miss it. When you get there, just ask for reservation under Barnes,”.

“Got it,” you say absentmindedly, as you adjust the length of your delicate necklace.  

“I’ll be staying at their place tonight,” Wanda tells you, cocking her head in Nat’s direction. “Y’know. Just in case,” she adds, winking knowingly at you.

“Oh my god,” you groan, “You don’t have to, it’s not gonna come to that,”.

“Uh-huh,” Natasha mutters, crossing her arms. “I’ll believe it when I see it,”.

Your gaze drifts over to the clock beside your bed. “I should get going,” you say when you take note of the time, hastily grabbing your purse from your bed before heading out the door.

“Have fun!” Peggy calls

“Use a condom!” Nat adds.

You bark out a breathless laugh. “Will do!” you shout back, more to the first statement than the second, because the likelihood of  _that_  being necessary is little to none.

——————

When you get to the restaurant, you take a deep, steadying breath before pushing the door open.

“Good evening, madam,” says the maître d’, a kind-looking man who’s name tag says Scott, “How may I help you?”

“I have a reservation under Barnes,” you reply. He nods, checks the list, then makes a pleased humming noise. “Right this way,” he says, gesturing for you to follow.

You’ve never been to this particular Thai restaurant, though you’ve passed it several times on your way home from work. It’s fairly new, and by the looks of it, fairly popular, as nearly every table is full, giving the place a warm buzz of conversation. The fragrant smells of chilli, coconut and lime linger in the air, and every dish you catch sight of is presented elegantly. Scott weaves expertly through the narrow spaces between tables, leading you to the back of the room. He stops beside a table for two in the corner, where a man in an all black outfit is sitting, head bent over a menu.

Your heart stops.

That hair. That profile.

“James?” you ask in disbelief. His head whips up in surprise and his eyes widen, a glimmer of excitement shining in them.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, stunned into silence.

“Y/N,” James breathes.

Hurriedly, you sink into the chair opposite him and pull your menu closer. “Oh my god.  _You’re_ Bucky?” you ask, still trying to wrap your head around this revelation.

James — Bucky? — smiles ruefully. “It’s a nickname,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. You note, once more, how his left hand has a leather glove on it. “Mostly it’s just Steve that uses it. My real name is James Buchanan Barnes,”.

“Oh,” you murmur, “So which one would  _you_  like me to use?”

“Bucky,” he says immediately, “I only let special people use it,”.

Your heart flutters excitedly at that. “I can’t believe it’s you!” you exclaim, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin on your hand. “I mean—I wish I’d given you my number, but—,”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, “I kinda wished that too,”. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing for a second. “Not the, I wish you’d given me your number—wait, I meant— _ugh_ that came out wrong—of course I’d like that, but—I wish I’d given  _you_  my—,”.

“Bucky, I get it,” you soothe, interrupting him when you sense that he’s working himself into a frenzy. Bucky flushes, embarrassed at having gotten so flustered by your presence. “Let’s order first, shall we?” you suggest.

——————

“So you’re a writer, huh?”, you ask, once the waiter has taken your orders and cleared away your drinks.

Bucky grimaces, “Supposed to be one,”.

“How’s that writer’s block going?”

“Not moving anywhere,”, he sighs, scrubbing one hand over his face as he leans back into his seat. “It’s nothing something I can just…move. I’m either inspired or I’m not. There’s no in-between,”.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, sensing that this is a touchy subject for him.

“Don’t be,”, Bucky replies, quirking his mouth into a lopsided grin. “S’not your fault,”.

You hum in agreement. Then, deciding to change tactics, slightly, you ask, “What kind of books do you write? I don’t recall hearing the name James Barnes anywhere,”.

Bucky hesitates, fiddling with his cutlery for a second. “I…write under a pseud, actually,”, he admits.

Your eyes widen in interest. “A pseudonym? That’s cool! What is it?”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Not telling,”

“C’mon,  _please_?” you whine. “You can’t leave me hanging! I wanna  _know_ ,” you beg, drawing out the last word.

He huffs out a breath of air. “Fine. You’re gonna find it so dorky. It’s the Winter Soldier,”.

If your jaw could hit the floor, it would’ve. “ _The_ Winter Soldier? As in, the man who wrote the Howling Commandos?” you ask, mouth still gaping in utter disbelief.

“That’s me,” Bucky confirms, lips curling into a broader smile. “You’ve read it?”

You snort at the tentative hopefulness in his voice. “Who  _hasn’t_?” you scoff, “That thing is a masterpiece! I’ve only read it about a hundred times,”.

“ _Only_ a hundred?” he quips, eyes glimmering with amusement, “I’m offended, doll,”.

You try to ignore the exhilarated flip in your stomach when you hear the pet name. “I’ve read all your other works too,” you gush, “Hydra was amazing, and so was Azzano, and Civil War, oh my  _god_ —oh, sorry, does this freak you out?” you ask, breaking off when you see the painfully apparent discomfort in his features.

Bucky shakes his head and laughs mirthlessly. “I—it’s kinda hard for me to talk about my writing,” he confesses, “I’ve…I haven’t written properly for a few months now, and thinking about it just makes me feel like a failure,”. A sympathetic twinge of pain shoots through your heart when you see his crestfallen expression.

“Hey,” you say softly, instinctively reaching across the table to touch his hand. It’s the gloved one, and, though he flinches, he doesn’t pull away. “You’re not a failure. So what if you’re taking a while to get inspiration? I’ve been trying to save up for my bakery for the last three years and I  _still_  only have half the amount I need. You just gotta keep trying. I believe in you,”.

Bucky smiles, bright and beautiful at you. He opens his mouth to say something, but the waiter comes by again, setting your dishes down in front of you. When he’s gone, Bucky murmurs a quiet, grateful, “Thank you,”.

“No problem,” you reply, picking up your spoon and preparing to dig into what is undoubtedly the most enticing-looking pineapple fried rice you’ve ever set eyes on. “I’m being serious, though. If it makes you feel any better, you’re writing is so…emotive. Your characters are always so complex, and the plot development, the prose…everything, it’s—impeccable. Unlike anything I’ve ever read,”.

He smiles shyly, ducking his head down to hide the blush colouring his cheeks at your praise. “What’s your favourite thing that I’ve written?” Bucky asks quietly.

You pause, thinking about your response. You chew your mouthful slowly, swallow and take a sip of water before answering. “I think it’s got to be Captain America,” you reply. “I mean, everything about it, the self-sacrifice, the relationship between him and his best friend, the  _sensitive_  treatment of PTSD, I just—it took my breath away,”.

“Really?” Bucky asks, “My first book? Surely my writing’s gotten better—,”

“It  _has_ ,” you assure him, “Really, it has, but…I dunno. Something about the plot and the characters just connects with me. It’s a stunning piece of literature,”.

“Wow,” Bucky chuckles, taking another forkful of his curry. “I signed up for a blind date, and I got this wonderful pep talk instead,”.

“We all need a confidence boost sometimes,” you reply easily.

“Yeah,” he murmurs absentmindedly.

You eat in companionable silence for a minute, until curiosity gets the better of you. He  _is_ one of your favourite authors, after all. “So…if you don’t mind me asking…I mean, I know you’re having a block, but…how’re things—what’re you…” your voice trails off and your hands flail about, hoping that Bucky will somehow miraculously get the idea.

He laughs. “How’s my writing going? Why did I come up with a wall?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “That,”.

Bucky hums thoughtfully. “It’s—the thing with my writing is that a lot of it is influenced by life experience,” he explains, “I served in the army for a while, which is why a lot of my stories are about battle and all that shit,”.

“Makes sense,” you say, taking another spoonful of your fried rice.

“Well, the thing is, I’ve wanted to branch out into…new things,” Bucky says, brows furrowed in concentration, trying to pick his words with care. “Military fiction is all well and good, but it’s not…not what I wanted to do, originally,”

“Genre-wise?” you ask.

“Yeah,”. Bucky hesitates, gnawing at his bottom lip restlessly.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t wanna,” you say quickly, “You’ve told me so much already—,”

“Romance,” Bucky blurts out, looking at you with frantic, nervous eyes, “That’s—that’s what I  _really_ want to do. I’ve…” he breaks off with a brittle laugh, “I’ve always had a liking for that sort of thing. Mundane characters, doing unremarkable things. Doesn’t sound the most interesting, but I guess that’s part of the challenge, right? Making something spectacular out of something ordinary,”.

“I’d read that,” you tell him, giving him an encouraging smile. “I think you’d put a whole new twist on the romance genre. Give everyone else a run for their money,”.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky huffs. “That’ll only happen if I can  _get_  a story out. I’ve been searching for my muse for god knows how long, and I  _still_  haven’t found it yet,”

“I hope you find inspiration soon,” you say quietly.

Bucky looks at you with a funny glint in his eyes, an expression you can’t quite place. “Yeah. Me too,”.

——————

“Let me walk you home,” Bucky says, holding the door open for you.

“Thank you, Bucky, but I can get back on my own,” you reply, smiling gratefully at him as you step out onto the street.  

He huffs out a laugh and nods. “I know. The thing is, you don’t have to,” he replies, chancing a coy, sideways glance at you.

You roll your eyes and flash him an amused smirk. “I don’t sleep with men I’ve just met,  _James_ ,”.

“You didn’t  _just_  meet me,” Bucky points out, “We met a couple of days ago, remember?”

You giggle, but acquiesce his request, sliding your hand around his elbow. “Alright. Fine. Walk me home, if you’re so desperate,”.

——————

His lips are sweet, chaste, tender. The kiss is everything you’ve missed about being with someone, yet so much more. Your fingers tangle in Bucky’s dark hair, and his hand — just the one, just the right — cups the back of your neck, holding you in place. His left one rests stiffly at the small of your back.

“Come upstairs with me,” you breathe, lips brushing against his with every word.

Bucky laughs quietly. “You trying to get me to sleep with you?” he teases, flicking his tongue over the corner of your mouth.

“I don’t  _do_  one night stands, James,”, you drawl, nipping his bottom lip gently.

“Neither do I, doll,” he replies.

A tense silence passes, both of you trying to figure out the other’s intentions. “So—what?” you ask hesitantly, “Is this…not happening, or are we going to be something…more permanent?”

“I’m not going to force you into anything,”, Bucky murmurs, hands coming to cup your waist, “But I know what my answer is,”.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,”.

You swallow, resting your forehead against his. “I have a feeling we’re on the same wave-length, then,”.

——————

Bucky crawls over you, lip caught between his teeth and a rakish gleam in his eyes. You reach up to cup his jaw, but he’s too quick, ducking his head down to pepper your neck with whisper-soft kisses. You sigh contentedly, arching into the touch.

Your hands wander down his front, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. You tease every fresh patch of bare skin that is exposed, making him groan and hum against your neck. You’re about to push the shirt off when Bucky suddenly stills, pulling back and looking at you with a concerned expression.

“What’s wrong?”

He swallows. “I—um, need to tell you something,”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you have an STD,” you breathe.

“No!”. Despite his nerves, he manages a dry chuckle. “No, it’s not that, I—,” he cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, running the fingers of his uncovered hand through his hair. “I was in the war. In Iraq,” Bucky says haltingly. “And…there was a grenade. And—well,”.

Instead of trying to explain it to you verbally, Bucky pulls off his leather glove, revealing a sleek, gleaming metal hand. The plates click and whirr softly as he flexes his fingers.

“Blasted the whole of my arm off,” Bucky murmurs. You can feel his eyes trained on your face. “This is a Stark invention,”. At your arched eyebrow, he nods. “Yep.  _The_ Tony Stark. Part of his prosthetics project. It’s just a prototype, but—it works, so I’m not complaining,”

You don’t reply, mutely taking in the metal appendage, in awe of it, really. Bucky takes your silence as your disapproval

“I’m sorry—I—it’s okay, if—,”

“No!” you cry, hand fisting in the front of his shirt to hold him still. “No, I’m not weirded out or anything, just curious. Can I touch it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, eyes darkening infinitesimally. He clears his throat. “Go ahead. Tony installed—not nerves, per se, but pressure and temperature sensors, so I can feel things,”.

You press a kiss to his lips, brush your thumb over his cheek, then slide your hands underneath his shirt, moving them towards his shoulders. Under your right fingers, you feel thick, ropey scars contrasting with smooth, slightly cool metal. At his nod, you slide the garment off, revealing his cybernetic arm in all its glory.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

——————

You’re utterly sated, back pressed against Bucky’s chest and legs entangled with his. Bucky’s flesh hand traces invisible patterns on your stomach, and his face is pressed into the back of your neck. The room is silent, save for the sound of your steady breaths.

“Doll?” Bucky whispers, lips grazing against your skin.

“Mmm?”

“I got this new idea for a story,”.

“Yeah?” you mumble, “Tell me about it,”.

“I think it’s going to be about…a man. An uninspired writer, feeling like the world’s closing in on him, trying to squeeze the fun outta life,”.

“Gee, sounds depressing,” you remark dryly.

“He’s suffering. No motivation, no drive, no desire to write anything. He walks into a shop one day and sees this  _gorgeous_  girl behind the counter—,”

Your breathing hitches.

“—And tries talking to her. Now she—she’s the sweetest thing he’s ever met. Kind, and funny, and humble. And it’s only ten minutes, but he finds himself falling in love with every little part of her,”.

Your heart thumps erratically behind your ribs.

“Thing is, he’s not sure how she feels about him,” Bucky continues, “He can’t stop thinking about her for the rest of the day. Later, his best friend sets him up for a blind date, and lo and behold — it’s the girl again,”.

“This storyline sounds familiar,” you mumble, forcing yourself to speak despite the parched sensation in your throat.

“Mmm. I told you I take inspiration from my own life,” he replies, “Anyway, he and the girl spend the evening talking about anything and everything. Conversation flows so easily, and…from just  _being_ with her, he feels more inspired than he’s ever been in a year,”. Bucky’s voice turns quiet and breathy, almost as if he’s afraid to say this last bit. “He’s found his muse, but he’s terrified that she’s going to run,”.

You squeeze his hand reassuringly, interlacing your fingers with his own. “I think that’s going to be a great story, Bucky,” you whisper, hoping against all hope that his confession implies what you think it implies.

Bucky is silent for a long while after that, and, if it weren’t for the cadence of his breathing, you’d think that he might’ve fallen asleep. “I don’t know how it ends, though. Will they have a happy ending?”

His tone is simultaneously hopeful and afraid, and it’s doing all sorts of things to your over-excited heart. You twist in his arms so that you can look at Bucky properly. “I hope so,” you say softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. Bucky leans into the touch, catching your wrist and holding it in place as he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.

“Will you stay?” Bucky asks, eyes glimmering with a million unspoken pleas, “Will you be my muse?”

You smile indulgently at him. “I’d like to see how this story ends,”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And, if you want to reblog this chapter on tumblr, then [here's](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/166032586583/be-my-muse-2/) a link for you.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on my [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And, if you'd like to reblog this post on tumblr, then [here's](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/165961921527/be-my-muse-1/) the link.


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